


the unbearable chokehold of loss

by WolvesAtTheShore



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Prompt Fic, major angst, this is not fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:58:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolvesAtTheShore/pseuds/WolvesAtTheShore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief documentation of grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the unbearable chokehold of loss

**Author's Note:**

> Um... this is a prompt by shipimpala  
> http://shipimpala.tumblr.com/post/47359132347/00q-q-is-in-coma-after-an-accident-james-has
> 
> It somehow turned out a lot darker what I thought and for that I feel the need to apologize in advance. Also there are flashbacks inserted I don't know how well I've managed to integrate them.

When it comes, the loss of a lover is something to be expected. Whether shadowed by bleary arguments and muddled words straining one's relationship, or by a sudden realization of the distinct incompatibility of said lovers, James never deluded himself by dreaming of forever.

He did not, however, calculate this distinct possibility. 

In the quiet stillness of the early hours, dawn still on its way, his thoughts sometimes curbed onto the oncoming loss - Q will leave him, surely, in one way or the other - James could fall in the line of duty and never see or hear the wispy voice he cherished so much, or some mission could go terribly astray and instead of dying right on the spot, he'd lose his sight or commotion, his life slowly dissolving, a downward spiral he was already familiar with when Moneypenny shot him (Q pulled him away at that time, an anchor James didn't even know he was missing). Sometimes he would almost taste the rupture, tiring nightmares about Q being captured or killed on a spree, used for ransom or leverage, tortured beyond repair, broken and damaged by James' doing. The warmth of the body sitting next to him always shoved those thoughts back, though, as if saying I'm here, I'm here, I won't ever leave. He'd settle, curling around his lover, in the certainty of the flesh and the calming sound of his even breaths, and when morning came, he'd greet Q with a warm smile and tea already cooled.

Of so many possible scenarios, the one that'd plagued him the most was that he'd somehow succeed to screw it up, his and Q's relationship and all that it entailed. It was still so new, so fragile, vulnerable under threats made at gunpoint and human stupidity alike. What he feared the most was his own stupidity, to be exact. He did not articulate his emotions on several occasions, did not show Q how much he meant, how much he -

Of course, this was before.

Now, Bond's sure nothing could have prepared him. They did not teach coping mechanisms at MI6. Not ones that James could actually apply, that he could actually use, none, nothing, no. “There is nothing that you can do”, he remembers Mallory telling him, voice cracked and tired, echoing in those empty hospital halls. Cracked and tired and true.

On his way to shooting area, dark halls lit by blazing neon, Moneypenny’s voiced clipped tight brought on another piece of daily news- “Q’s been in an accident, double-oh-seven”. He chuckled at her then, and he realizes now that it was the last time a semble of humor passed his face. He’d foolishly thought of papercuts and tipped-off chairs, and of bandaged fingertips from when an altered motherboard short circuited, sending sparks off and scolding Q in the process. Accidents, he had learnt, were often common at the headquarters. James remembers the first ignition of panic setting in before his laughter died. After all, in all the other times reports of such accidents were hardly noteworthy, and either way there was no actual reason to inform Bond, unless... unless Q was badly injured. The trip to the hospital took longer than it should have, with the heavy traffic of London’s rush hour, and James learns then that the commotion was also the cause of Q’s accident. Standing in the back of an inconspicuous black limo, he skims through the police reports and witness statements. The dull ache is his chest grows tenfold as he watches the CCTV proof.

As days go by, the pain only increases. The burden on his shoulders, the heavy weight on his chest constricting his breath - James wonders how long he can sustain it. Several times, he’s forced himself to steady his breathing. Now, in the tiny hospital room, he's syncing it to Q's oxygen pump machine. Worn thin by worry and loss, he suddenly stands up, pushing and shoving people out of his way, leaving the hospital premises, that goddamn room with that frail looking body, pale, too pale, and goes straight to the liquor store and then to his own flat. The numbness that has installed in his mind also takes over his body. Hands unsteady, he pours another shot, glass full to the brim, and downs it with graceless movements. Some of the whiskey ends on his chin, now sporting an untamed beard, and some stains the crumpled folds of his shirt - not that he either notices or cares. After the accident, he found it too painful to stay in the place they both shared; Q's flat now void of laughter, rapid tapping and perpetual buzzing of equipment, void of moans or whimpers, void of Q.

In the empty confines of his apartment, he doubles over and starts heaving.

Choking on nothing, hands gone cold, trembling and shivering, broken sounds escape his lips, half-aborted sobs and wails. His face feels heated, yet no tears come. The gun powder realization of the situation shocks him to the core, and Q’s dying, if not dead already in that goddamn hospital and James can’t let that happen, but he can’t stop it either and it feels like he’s dying there, too. In a faraway corner of his mind, he’s mildly aware that he’s going through a panic attack.

He reaches for the bottle and this time chokes on twenty year old whiskey. 

The sticky faux leather doesn't bother him anymore as he's passed out on the couch, which is rapidly becoming a routine, just like tea in bed once was. His skin is kissed by leather instead of the skin of another, and it’s the only type of kisses he gets as the days blur into nothingness, bitter liquid burning his throat, sore from screaming, skin torn open on his knuckles from punching furniture and walls, tearing down his shallow excuse of an apartment until it resembles his own wrecked form. The first time it happens is when he's standing on that same couch, sight set on the windows, depressive music buzzing in the background, and he's suddenly hit with a flashback of Q fidgeting near the windowsill, witty comments on the lack of comfort in his apartment, snarky words used to cover an invitation for the two of them to live together. James stands up and walks to that very same spot, as if chasing a ghost _/not a ghost, not a ghost, he’s still alive._ He packs the first punch to the nearest wood furniture when he sees a handprint with long, slender fingers, Q's fingers between the particles of dust - he doesn't have a maintenance contract for this place, no one comes up to tidy it, the last time - the last time Q was here, he marked this spot, this very spot, oh God, _oh God, Q_. Small moments of their life together swift before his eyes, heart swelling and throbbing with so much loss. His hand hovers over the print, uncertain, until it packs that punch.

After the tantrum his knuckles are split, some minuscule blood splatter stains the floor, and he needs sturdier furniture to put up a better fight. He drags himself in the shower and firmly doesn't flinch when the heated water sprays his body. He’s battered and emotionally vacant. The bathroom tiles are cool by comparison and he slouches on the wall, water still running, hoping in vain that Q will recover. When he comes back into the living room, the handprint’s half-mocking him, as the other half he’s managed to wipe out in his fury. 

A week on that couch leaves him dead tired, circles pooling round his eyes that have yet to shed a tear. At last, he resolves to sleep in his bed, stumbling and crawling his way into it. The whiskey bottles now gather near the nightstand, with a single, lone glass to keep them company. He can count on his fingers the number of times he's actually slept on this bed before. The mattress needs cracking into, the sheets are too heavy, cling to him too tightly, suffocate him in his sleep. Nights are the worst, with the dread and the anxiousness and the flicker of hope that always stings the most- _will Q live through tomorrow? is this the day he'll wake up?_ At night he can't help the feeling that maybe he's missed something, a tiny crucial detail, maybe this is all a fickle of a nightmare, this can't be happening, no.

The darkness smothering him is always welcomed, swallowing him whole and keeping him at peace for at least 5 hours. This occurs, of course, only when heavily medicated. At first Bond tried being inebriated, but no matter how many bottles of Jack he could digest (too many, far too many now) the sleep he'd gotten after would be filled with nightmares, visions of Q that in any other circumstance would stabilize him (away in the unforgiving heat of the desert on a mission he'd dream of Q and drink the images of him like a touch-starved person he was). He took to calling them nightmares nowadays, haunting him in his sleep with their life-like resemblance.

During the day, the agent could deal with his loss rationally, although he admittedly chose to drown himself in alcohol to keep distance from reality. The nights, however, were a different thing altogether. It ached, in a way Bond was sure the cruelest torture would not, to wake up from a dream of a life together, tiny snapshots of domestic bliss, the taste of Q in the morning, smiling cheekily in the mirror back at him. Bond would take a look at him, the frayed fabric around the hem of Q's pyjama bottoms, soft and worn and so well-known, and then he'd wake up, disorientated. It hurt, and James concluded his unconscious was even more sadistic than him. They started maybe a week after the accident, on that damned sofa in the living room, passed out from exhaustion (after what Bond decidedly called not a panic attack) and it seemed so harmless, just fragments of their life together pieced by his mind to blend in, seamlessly - nothing strange, nothing out of the ordinary, Q's hallow laughter and his gentle ministration. Afterwards, he'd woken up to a shallow version of reality. He had known upon the first moments of waking that something was wrong, something was missing _-Q-_ but the dream had that real life quality he could not contest until it was too late.

The nightmares didn't happen often, what with the sleeping pills he pumped in his blood flow every evening, but they still happened far too frequently for the agent's taste. He'd puked the first time it happened, he'd dreamt of Q's naked, unmarred flesh pressed flushed against his own, the air around them electrifying, both covered in a sheen of sweat, tangled in bed - the bed the agent no longer slept in- and these little whimpers coming out from the quartermaster's mouth, a murmured chanting of _'James, James, James'_ as he rode the agent in slow, sinuous waves. There was an unrushed quality of their lovemaking, one that James recognized as rare, but cherished nonetheless, so it had to have been an uneventful day for both of them, no missions, no assignments, no report, just the two of them coming together at the end of the day. But when he tried to recall anything about his day, James was met with a blank gap. Q was writhing and moaning on top of him, a sight so exquisite James would have like to stare at it for an eternity. At that precise point the agent had woken up, had shaken up from bed, covered in cold sweat, sporting a rapidly deflating erection, and emptied whatever alcohol was left in his system on the dark mahogany floor. After a moment to fully register what had happened, he felt dread creeping up his spine once again.

His lover was laying in a hospital room, with not an inch of his body not covered in cuts and bruises varying in size, and he'd just had a fucking wet dream about him.

The hole inside his chest once again ached, shame adding now to the steel biding emotions pooling in the pit of his stomach. There was grief, that started somewhere below his collarbone and expanded downwards over his whole body; anger, centered around his solar plexus, burning brighter each passing day, uselessness and helplessness hidden on the bottom of his stomach, dread on his small of his back and the nape of his neck, and now shame. And on top of all those, the loss. The burden of a missing lover took over his entire body; James was never fully prepared to lose Q and now he carried a dead weight of their relationship, toweling over him and haunting him at night. He felt somewhat tainted, he'd had to fight himself to enter Q's room after the dream happened, but he convinced himself to open the door by needing to check that Q was still there. Which was utterly ridiculous, he thought to himself grimly, of course Q would be there, in the exact spot he was in yesterday, and the day before that, and the fucking month before that. The immobile body in front of him was there, the shell of the person he came to love. 

He's shot at and fell through thin air, the force of the bullet shattering his balance and propelling him backwards, onto nothing but air, and he's falling, falling in through air and then water, and the force of it shocks the breath out of his lungs and he's moving deeper and deeper into the sea. His whole body hurts and he can no longer pinpoint the exact place he's been shot. The water holds him like a blanket, suspended in time and place, with nothing to feel but pain, searing pain that diffuses from his core to his fingertips, and a blooming need for oxygen building in his chest .

There is no ocean for him to choke on this time, just loss, these dreary feelings of grief and pain and anger, that press tightly on his throat until he can't breathe.  
He’s been in and out of hospitals his whole life. When he was a child he’d hid in a tunnel and buried his losses there. His childhood laid shelved between the crimson bricks. His memories of his parents sunk perfectly between the dust particles and the grime on the floor. Later in his life, Vesper drowned and he had his revenge as a way of mourning. He’d drowned, too, shot to ashes and reborn like a Phoenix, a chance to start afresh, a new life with a new love.

Unplugging the machines is not nearly as hard as it should be. After all, it’s all very technological. A little switch. On/Off. Q breathes, and in the next moment he doesn't. The severe traumatic brain injury rendered Q in a permanent vegetative state. It took a month for his condition to be settled, and James still feels the bitter taste of helplessness that swallowed him whole since that day. The paperwork involved is blessedly not his task, unknown medical jargon directed at him without his muddled brain understanding half of it, so in his place someone from the administrative branch is left dealing with legal terms such as persistent and permanent, making the court applications for ending life support. In the end, Mallory leaves the decision to him, after two very respectable doctors explain the gravity of Q’s situation and the likeliness he would ever recover from it. Words like wakefulness or alertness mean nothing to James, when he still remembers a bleary eyed Q blinking the last shadows of sleep from his eyes, all sharp and crisp in a matter of seconds. Q’s not awake now, or by any means alert, and if James would've been a poet he might’ve found some pretty metaphor for his situation. There’s nothing pretty anymore. 

His hatred for hospitals lies ingrained in his inability to help, to make it better or rescue someone, the guilt-ridden trip he suffers as the neons pulse intermittently their phony, artificial light. The sterile environment and fancy machines with their beeping noises serve nothing to make the situation more bearable. He watches the last of Q’s exhale, quiet and unsuspecting, and there’s no fight there, no struggle for breathing; death comes as elegant as his whole life has been. James’ throat feels too tight all of the sudden for the man in the stark white sheets is pale and not living anymore. He’s not his handler anymore, either. Or his lover, for that matter.

The air feels thick and there’s a gut-wrenching fog inside his chest. He’s no longer young, not nearly as young as his still warm lover lying on the bed. He feels old and battered and tears are now flowing unbound, he collapses into himself, into now and the solemnity of the moment that has just passed as he fights a losing battle with sobs that he’s been smoldering for far too long. Another one missing. Another death to add to the string of gone lovers. No. This is not another, he is Q - was Q. He glances once again at the eerily still man laying before him and the pain doubles up. 

He’s only sold Q’s apartment after months of agonizing there after missions, no wound burning brighter than the pain of the missing occupant. Life goes on, muted and colourless, and if from time to time he drowns under the scolding whiplash of memories, no one’s there to take notice.

On Q’s tombstone sits a name he does not recognize. The white creases carved seamlessly form words that are foreign to him. His funeral stone is as bland as all the others, giving no clue to what James lost beneath it, just letters and numbers scrambled up - a lifespan so short, so brilliantly full to the brim, it did such a shame to be enclosed in a casket afterwards. Shame though, does not cover all the layers of loss Bond’s been wearing. Above the numbers, there are letters, plain and white and curiously unknown. It does not matter to him whether they were Q’s MI6 alias or his real name, the one he never felt the need to know. Bond has no use of it now, anyhow.

When it comes, the sudden loss of a lover is never something to be expected. Nobody does, James Bond certainly hasn't. He kept the broken parts of the motorbike and the bloodstained casket, CCTV footage, hospital records and obituary. The rest of Q’s belongings he’s stored in a warehouse, along with unopened tea boxes and half-finished projects for HQ. There’s no physical trace of Q in his life anymore, as if there’s never been, and James feels as he did all those years ago, trapped in the dust laden room inside Skyfall Lodge, drenched in the murky water of Venice, he feels the same as he did the whole time that he had served as a double-oh: cold, and utterly alone.


End file.
